Dear Mr. President,

We’re wild horses.Born
in Nevada, we ran free on the range, manes blowing, legs reaching and pulling
us up mountains and then downhill in crazy gallops, zig-zagging through storm-hammered sage brush.

We’re not there anymore. We’re in a place
called BLM. We’re young, healthy and we play chase when
we can.

So, when we heard you wanted to kill us -- not as the cougar
does, one at a time to feed her young, but all together, for reasons we don’t
understand --we asked a friend to speak for us in your language.